Price of Freedom
by bunnyofawesomeness
Summary: Train muses on his freedom and the horrible price paid for it.


Author Note: Gosh, this is so depressing. I think I'm secretly depressed and just don't know it. Sorry for the depressing and OCCness of this piece of fail. Constructive Criticism is greatly appreciated!

Disclaimer: I am not yet awesome enough to create something as amazing as Black Cat.

Freedom always has a price.

A simple statement of truth, it crept its way into Train's head. It must have quietly nested itself there a long time ago, and now chose this particular moment to sprint to the front of his mind and deliver a swift kick to the inside of his face. He sat alone on the rooftop overlooking the town that was drowning in stark red and orange hues of dusk while his thoughts about his past crawled from the dark crevices of his mind and swirled together into a whirlwind determined to blow out his brains.

The guilt and anger pumped his veins full of despair, and today it felt as if someone had set the machine on 10x. His blood must have been replaced with gallons of icy lake water, and it was now threatening to burst and erase his guilt-ridden, bloodstained existence.

The two-year old agony was awakened and made fresh, all because he had finally confessed to his partner the true reason he wanted, no _needed_ to kill Creed. His face had broken out in guilt as the condemning story dribbled from his mouth like blood, like her blood, so incredibly dark redredred, threatening to fill his lungs and choke the sinful life right out of him.

She would have hated this. Heck, hated _him_ for even considering the mere possibility of killing once again. He became a sweeper, defender of the weak, upholder of justice, just like her, but it was just a tissue-paper coat he duct-taped onto himself. He had wrapped himself in her warm glow of friendship, painted over the bloodstains, and glued a hero-ready smile onto his face. What a disguise. No matter what, he was still nothing but a cold-blooded killer running around in a papier-mache hero costume that was threatening to collapse.

He spares a glance at the bottle of milk perched beside him on the roof, and he feels the bile rise in his throat. His favorite drink, no, _their_ favorite drink. And now it made him sick. The ghost-white milk stared back at him impassively, and he'd give anything for her to pop out of nowhere and steal his milk like she always did. He'd give anything to return to the days of having rooftop meetings, discovering first smiles, and bonding over a mutual love of milk.

As he lifts his eyes from the milk bottle, he swears he sees her, the bottom of her yukata blowing gently in the breeze, but then he blinks and the spell of sweet make-believe is crushed, crushed under the crimson-turning-dark-blueblack sky speckled with weak yellow stars far out of reach.

This world is so cruel with its irony. The one who showed him the path to freedom is the price paid for it.

Sven and Eve didn't comment on it, but he knew what they must think. It was his fault. All his fault. If only she had never met him. She might, no, she _would_ be alive. It was all himhimhim because death trails after him like a raging tornado that uproots lives. He slammed his fist into the rough red tiles of the roof, probably scaring some poor person in the room below. Not that he cared.

He inspected his hand to see it bleeding slightly, and he wanted to vomit again. He was so sick of seeing red.

It was _his_ stupid old partner that tracked her down, because of _his_ friendship with her. _His_ relationship with her was her end. Really, he had to pursue Creed. Or his own guilt would consume him.

This was one of the bad times, where he couldn't sleep and reality blurred because he couldn't take it and all he could see was red, red everywhere, staining the world so he couldn't escape. He couldn't let his partners see him like this.

With the thought of his partners, the storm in his mind seemed to calm and the slightest resemblance of a smile creeped its way onto his face. They were his dear friends who he annoyed and protected and loved. With them, he led the kind of lifestyle he always wanted, free, a lazy stray cat doing what he wants. The life she lived, the life she gave him the chance to live. Why wasn't she here with him?

If he could, he would do anything, even go back to the dreaded Chronos to be an assassin again if it meant her being alive. He wanted to rewind everything, to go back before that terrible night. He wanted to believe that it could have gone differently, that they could have found freedom together without any death. Without any price. But that was a false hope. He knew reality.

_Saya..._

Freedom always has a price. And she was his.


End file.
